Untitled
by Rosa Lui
Summary: PostSeries. The war is over, and King Galbatorix is dead. But for one defeated Dragon Rider, the triumph of the Varden means nothing but imprisonment.
1. Chapter One

**Disclaimer: **Not Mine. :3 I don't own Eragon. I don't really want to own Eragon, and it's probably a good thing for all of us that I don't. This is because, if I did, Murtagh would be ruling the world, and most of the other characters would be dead.

**A.N.: **Hmm. Why am I writing an Eragon fic? I have no idea. To be completely honest... I'm not even a fan. O.O Lol! No, that's wrong - while not a fan of the books, I am a big, big Murtagh fan, and I felt the need to do his character a bit of justice. (Or something.) Anyway, hope you all enjoy!!!

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**Untitled **

**Chapter One**

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It was over.

He supposed for that, at least, he should be grateful. The battle was won, and King Galbatorix was dead, along with his black dragon. The cheers of triumph that had erupted on the battlefield had been indication enough, but it was more than that - it was as if a dark veil had been lifted from before his eyes. His actions felt like his own again, not like those of some puppet straining against the heavy hand of his puppeteer. His vision was clear, and the constant whispers in his head - always silky, seductive, overpowering - were gone.

Murtagh was free.

Not that he was in much of a position to enjoy it.

No more than a few days - hours? Weeks? Years? - ago, they had brought him to his cell and left him there, kneeling in a growing puddle of his own blood, arms wrenched up behind his back and the chains around his wrists attatched to the ceiling. Red armour wrent and torn, blood-clotted hair hanging in his eyes, his only companion in the darkness was Thorn's voice, as they did their best to soothe and comfort each other from their respecitve prisons.

_They've probably forgotten all about us_, he thought bitterly. _They'll come back in a week to find me dead and rotting, and Eragon will take Thorn just like he took Zar'roc, the arrogant, pompous little shit._

Here followed some gentle scolding from Thorn, who was doing his best to drum into his young master's mind that it was a much better idea to befriend your captors than to piss them off; apparantly after a number of scuffles, the two residant dragons had become friendly since the battle's end, hardly to Murtagh's delight.

_Traitor,_ he snapped.

_Hypocrite._ This from Saphira. _They would have killed you if not for Eragon. He must still hold some lingering affection for you, goodness knows why._

Murtagh just scowled. _I don't want his pity. _

_He doesn't pity you._

He snorted. Yeah, right. _I don't want his forgiveness, then, and I don't want his friendship. Not anymore._

_Too bad,_ Saphira replied blithely. _Because he's standing outside your cell door, ready to offer you both._

Murtagh's head jerked up in surprise. _Oh, shit._


	2. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. :3

**A.N.: **Here I go again!!! Thank you all for the wonderful comments - I loved them, and they made my day!! I would love to put in responses to everyone, but apparently that's against rules... Anyway. Hope you enjoy this chapter...

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**Untitled  
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**Chapter Two**

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It was interesting, Eragon mused, how sometimes all perspective could just fly out the window.

The last few days had been a whirlwind - between the battle and it's aftermath, he hadn't had so much as three seconds to himself, which, in retrospect, may have been a good thing. It meant he'd had no time to worry, or to brood.

Upon defeating Murtagh on the battlefield, he had simply thought, _One more enemy down_, and gone on to his next opponent. The midst of a bloodbath was no place to worry about trivial things like a lost friendship. But now, Murtagh - his friend, his enemy, his brother, Galbatorix's right-hand man - faced the very real possibility of an execution, and Eragon could do nothing to stop it. Unless he could prove that Murtagh was innocent, and had been forced to fight against his will.

The very horrible part of it was, Eragon wasn't entirely sure Murtagh _had_ done it against his will.

Which was why he had to talk to him.

Which meant he would, eventually, have to open the heavy prison cell door in front of him and step through.

Easy as pie. Eragon was a Dragon Rider. He had defeated the strongest man in Alagaesia. He had the allegiance of not only the humans and the dwarves, but the elves as well, and was very likely to have an elven wife in the near future. He was invincible.

And the idea of talking to Murtagh scared the crap out of him.

_Perspective,_ he reminded himself sharply. _Be calm. Collected. The last thing you need to do is lose your head. Keep your wits about you._ He took a deep breath, raised his hand, and knocked. There was no answer. He frowned, and knocked again.

An incredulous voice, hoarse from disuse, rang out. "I would hope you're not waiting for me to open the door. I would love to, understand, but it's a bit hard with both hands chained to the ceiling, especially when it only opens from the outside, as prison doors tend to."

Oh. Right. Furious with himself for the ridiculous blunder, Eragon undid the magic sealing the door shut and stepped in.

His first reaction to the sight that greeted him was sadness. The man that knelt before him, broken and bleeding, was a far cry from the brave, quiet archer he had once been, so desperate to be out of the King's reach... so willing to follow his friend into danger against his own better judgement.

"Don't look at me like that." Murtagh's voice was quiet, but the hostility in it was clear. "I don't want your pity."

"Very well." Eragon paused for a moment, then spoke again. "I am here because every leader from the King of Surda to the village elder of the nearest peasant town is clamoring for your head. And they will have it, unless I can convince them you are on our side. I have told them that I believe you are." He stopped, giving Murtagh a change to speak. When no reply was forthcoming, he continued. "You never wished to serve Galbatorix. I know that. But people change, and some develop a liking for power, once they have had a taste of it. Even Morzan did not start out -"

"I am nothing like him," Murtagh said stonily, breaking his silence at last.

"Perhaps not. But you once said that no one's life was more precious than your own, and you would protect yourself whatever the cost. What if that cost included the lives of your comrades? Or your kin?"

"I would have liked nothing more than for that 'cost' to have included my father's life."

"And mine?"

Silence.

"How can you not understand? Hundreds died on that battlefield because your warped sense of self-preservation refused to let me free you!"

"Kill me, you mean."

"Yes!"

Murtagh shrugged as well as his chains would allow, eyes dark. "I suppose I can't deny that. Perhaps it's why I gave in, in the end, and took the oath."

It might also have had something to do with the burning pain he'd felt as Seithr oil had been dripped slowly onto his skin, the chains against his back, finger bones systematically broken... all these injuries re-healed by the king, only so that they could be done again, as Galbatorix himself ripped Murtagh's mental defenses to shreds, scouring his memory without mercy... No one betrayed the king. No one. And being left by the son of his most loyal servant had put him into a rage...

Murtagh shook himself out of his memories, and gave Eragon a bitter smile. "You have no idea, do you?" He asked scornfully. "You grew up in peace. You were trained by those who cared. And now, you have people of every race falling at your feet. Do you realise how easily our places could have been switched? I could have had everything you did. Instead, I grew up in hell, you have my sword, you have my dragon, and I am entirely at your mercy." He scowled. "For the short time we traveled together, you were a comrade I was willing to follow, even if I was jealous of what you had - what I thought you didn't deserve."

They stared at each other in silence. "I was not pleased to find out who... our... father was," Eragon finally managed. His voice sounded oddly constricted. "But I would have been happy - no, proud - to call you my brother."

Damn him. Damn him, for knowing the right things to say. Murtagh said nothing, but his reaction must have shown in his eyes, because at a word from Eragon, his chains loosed from the ceiling, and he slumped to the floor in pain, willing himself to remain conscious.

"You will recieve medical treatment," Eragon was saying. "You are still officially a prisoner, until my next opportunity to continue this conversation. Now..."

But the voice was fading as his vision blurred. The conversation had sapped the last of his reserves, and blackness was closing in, his injuries taking their toll at last. Unconsciousness came swiftly.


	3. Chapter Three

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. :3

**A.N.: **Wow. At long last!! Chapter three!!!! I am soooo sorry it has taken so long - life has been hectic, full of crazy amounts of studying, and some really big family health issues. I LOVE all of your reviews - they bring a smile to me face when I'm feeling gloomy, and they've helped push me along in the past few months. I wish I could make my chapters longer, but please remember that I'm writing this all in about an hour, with no beta, and no self-editing. :( I am trying, however. I hope you enjoy this!!! And PLEASE, review!!!! Also, I finally saw the movie. I'm sorry, but I nearly broke all my ribs laughing.

**FanArt:** It's Photoshop, technically, not art, but whatever. Enjoy. You can find it on my profile. Tell me what you think! Remember, this is after Eragon has been elf-ified, which is why he looks all pale and cold.

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**Untitled  
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**Chapter Three **

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Murtagh's head felt funny. That in itself wasn't unusual - his head had been feeling funny for the better part of the last couple years - but this was different.

During his time in the Varden's cell, his mind had been remarkably clear, despite his pain and fatigue. Now, though, it had changed. As the fog of unconsciousness slowly receded, it left behind a disturbing light-headedness. Hunger, he guessed, and lack of sleep - maybe even a potion for numbing the pain. But there was something else...

He opened his eyes.

After a few moments of disoriented blinking, his surroundings swam fuzzily into view. He was in the Varden's infirmary, a place he remembered from what seemed like a lifetime ago. He had been under suspicion then, too; fresh out of battle, only just beginning to be trusted, future still uncertain. But things had all been going in the right direction, at least until - _Don't think about it._ Still, it was strange how things could change so much, and yet so little.

Closing his eyes again, he reached out with his mind, calling, gently, _Thorn?_ There was no answer. But the dragon _had_ to be safe. Eragon had as much promised - though now that he thought about, Eragon hadn't exactly _promised_ anything at all. Disctinctly uneasy, he tried again, pushing harder this time. _Thorn?!_

This time, he was rewarded. _Murtagh?_ The dragon sounded pleased. No danger, then. _You're awake! Took you long enough, little one._

_Why couldn't I reach you?_

But it was not his own dragon that answered him. _They're keeping you drugged,_ Saphira said. _Eragon told me. Apparantly they don't quite trust you yet. _Here followed a sort of mental huffing sound. Murtagh suspected she was laughing.

_It's only until he speaks to you again,_ Thorn promised.

_...He plans to set me free?_

Silence. _They wouldn't be healing you if he didn't, _his dragon said at last.

Murtagh said nothing. His time in Galbatorix's court had tought him all too well how the minds of kings could work.

Injured people weren't nearly as fun to execute.

**Meanwhile...**

Eragon rubbed wearily at his forehead. He no longer got tired the way normal humans did - or at least, not as quickly - but the argument he was currently witness to was giving him a blazing headache. _Do they not see that they are going in circles? They have been hollering at each other for the last hour, and yet gotten nowhere._

'They', of course, were his under-lords, if that was the right word. He had called them to council on what they liked to call 'The Traitor Issue', and was now starting to seriously regret it.

They had come decked out in their grandest finery, and seated themselves at his table, presenting him with gifts as if to say, "Watch me show off. Respect me. Oh, and here. I'm sucking up to you."

Now, tassled cloaks were lying draped over chairs, tunics were unbuttoned at the necks, and ceremonial circlets set down on the table as their owners yelled at one another, red-faced. Amongst them all, only Nasuada was silent, an island of calm in an angry sea. Thank Varda for small blessings.

Still, he wished Arya was here with him. Perhaps she could shut them up, or at least stop their squabbling like children. They were on their third round of "We should execute the traitor!" vs. "No, we shouldn't!" and showed no signs of stopping yet.

"All right," he snapped finally, slamming one hand down on the table for emphasis. "That's _enough_."

Ah. Blessed silence.

"This is getting us nowhere," he continued more clamly. "The simple fact of it is that Murtagh was forced into the enemy's service against his will. Neither during his recent servitude nor when he originally dwelled there did he ever freely support Galbatorix's ideals."

Murtagh's comments during their first battle came unbidden to his mind; he had talked about how grand Galbatorix's vision of the world was, and the place he could have in it - all much to Eragon's dismay, both then and now. But that had been before. Things had changed. Eragon shoved the memory away angrily.

"A slave does not deserve death for following the will of an evil master. I believe... I believe he deserves no punishment."

Nasuada nodded thoughtfully. She'd already known his point of view on the subject; the reaction was just for show. The rest of the table, however, was in shocked silence.

"My lord," one man began tentatively, in the tone of one explaining 'two plus two' to a five-year-old who was possibly quite mad, "A Dragon Rider with no allegiances could be dangerous. He does not need to be an ally of Galbatorix's to seek power."

"I do not believe power is his wish," Eragon said firmly. _Probably. I hope._ "In either case, he alone could not pose any threat to the Varden, or the building of a new empire. There is no army that would rally to him. We do not need to see him as a threat."

Another silence. Still skeptical, but he had their attention. They were listening now, and he needed to press his advantage while he had it. "He is a fellow Rider, and my brother. I will not have him treated as a common criminal." _That's it. Remind them that your decisions are to be respected._ "Do you not think that I have enough power to control him, if need be?"

Surda's lead military advisor leaned forward with a sigh. "I suppose he could be given a sort of ornamental captaincy," he said contemplatively. "A position befitting his rank, where we could easily keep an eye on him, and conduct his movements -"

"No." This was it - all or nothing. They would either bend to his will, or laugh in his face. Jaw clenched, Eragon continued. "I want him set free. Not kept track of, not watched. Free. If he decides to become my captian, I will be... glad of it, but I want that decision to be his, as a man aquitted of all crimes." He looked at them each, long and hard. "All in favor, say 'aye.'"

"...Aye."


	4. Chapter Four

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. :3

**A/N.:** Well. Long time no see. Here is the long-awaited fourth chapter; I'm sorry I couldn't get it out (or, indeed, write it) until now. But here, at last, our journey ends - though you might see a few more stories under my name in the future, they won't necessarily be in the same genre, unless inspiration hits. Nevertheless, the ride has been fun, and you all have been amazing. Since I forget how to say "Goodbye" in Eragon-Elvish, I'll just have to say "Namarie."

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**Chapter Four**

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It had ended well, Eragon decided. The majority of the council - or at least, everyone whose opinion counted - had voted favorably, signaling the end of the their meeting, Murtagh's imprisonment, and Eragon's headache. He'd had his scribe draw up an official written pardon then and there, which he had dispatched with a messenger at the first possible opportunity, along with an invitation to dinner that evening. He knew Murtagh would rather know their decision sooner rather than later.

"Eragon."

He turned. It was Nasuada. "I am glad you were here today," he said with a nod. "I could not have accomplished this without your willing support. You have my thanks."

"No need," she said with a smile and a shake of her head, and, with a slight bow, swept from the room.

Eragon scanned the room. Its occupants had broken off into small groups to discuss various points, their attention no longer on him. He was free to leave, and glad of it. War was known to him - but the art of rebuilding a kingdom and securing peace was far more difficult, and he was weary. At the moment, he wished for nothing more than some food - perhaps a plate of fish and tubers - and to see Arya, before retiring for a mid-morning nap. Unless...

"My lord!"

_The messenger._ Eragon groaned inwardly. _Why must the simplest things become a problem?_

"My lord Eragon!" The messenger came running into the room, skidding to a stop just in time to perform a quick bow, before continuing. "The prisoner - that is, lord Murtagh - he means to leave! He has collected his belongings, he is on his way to the dragon keep!"

Well. That changed things. Some part of Eragon - the part that wasn't still reeling in shock - knew that he should have suspected this would happen. Murtagh was anything but predictable, but the one consistancy in his behavior was that he often did the very last thing Eragon expected him to. He'd known how much Murtagh wished to be free, but not that he would be so desperate as to leave _immediately_, without even saying farewell.

And that, he admitted, was what was bothering him. He hadn't wanted to leave it like this - awkward, tense, and with far too many things left unsaid. And if he left now... Alagaesia was a big place. While on one hand Eragon was sure he would be able to track the other Rider down, it was entirely possible they would never see one another again. But...

_The dragon keep_. Unwilling to keep Thorn completely confined, but unable to allow him the freedom of the skies, Eragon had come up with a happy medium for the time of Murtagh's imprisonment. It was a paddock of sorts, some ways away from the Varden's stronghold and nestled against the base of the mountain for protection against the elements. The great red dragon had been spending his days there, with Saphira as his willing guard - and, eventually, his friend. It wasn't close, and took time to get to - especially for a man still recovering from battle wounds, as Murtagh was. But he'd had a good head start, and his determination and will-power had always been impressive... _Saphira_?

_Yes_?

_Is Murtagh with you and Thorn_?

_Why, yes he is._

_And you never thought to tell me_?!

A huff. She was laughing.

_Keep them there, do you hear me? Do NOT let him leave, sit on him if you must_! He ran.

**Meanwhile...**

Saphira, Murtagh had come to realise, could be quite frightening when she chose. It was very easy to forget that she was a ten-ton, armour-covered, razor-clawed, fire-breathing bundle of solid muscle; especially when she was in her normal good humor. Now, however, she was standing between him and a half-saddled Thorn, with a look on her face that said something to the effect of _Don't even _try. What made it worse, if possible, was the unmistakable spark of humor in her eyes. She was laughing. Heartily. And so was Thorn, if the cackles filling his mind were any indication.

_Saphira_ -

_I have my orders, young one. _

_You don't need to listen to him!_

_I'm not. _

_What -_

_He told me to sit on you._

Murtagh supposed he should be grateful for small blessings.

It did not take long for Eragon to arrive; some number of minutes, during which Murtagh took the time to rest. Though he would never admit it, the walk from the healer's ward had taken a lot out of him; he was sweating slighty and breathing somewhat heavily, and was sure that if he tried to run at any great speed, he would collapse before he had gone twenty yards. But it didn't matter; he would mend, and with Thorn's added strength, as well as the bandages and herbs he had packed away in his satchel, the ride would be no problem at all. He could find time to rest later.

The sound of approaching footsteps brought him out of his reverie, and, bracing one hand against the wall, he stood.

Eragon entered and stopped short, a look of awkwardness passing over his features that seemed much more suited to the young farmboy he had been than the kingly Dragon Rider he supposedly had become. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, instead waving Saphira aside from her guard position with a gesture.

Murtagh did nothing, only brushed the sweaty hair away from his eyes with a slightly impatient brush of his hand. He seemed to be waiting for Eragon to speak.

"I had invited you to dine with me this evening." The moment the words were out of his mouth, Eragon winced. Of all the things he could have come up with, _that_ was what he chose?

"I know." Murtagh had turned away, and was now bending over to tighten the last of the saddle straps across Thorn's belly. "Forgive me, but I hadn't thought you meant it as a command."

"It wasn't," Eragon said testily. "It was a... a peace-offering."

Murtagh said nothing, only straightened and began to attach his satchel to the saddle.

"We were _friends_, Murtagh," Eragon continued, becoming more annoyed with the other Rider by the minute. "Who we are, or where we came from - it doesn't matter! Do you not see?" A note of desperation crept into his voice. "We can get past all that - and - I hope this isn't just because I defeated you in battle, or -"

Murtagh shook his head, still facing away. "I don't plan to hold a grudge just because of a little matter of wounded pride. It's just... better like this."

"You don't think anyone will look down on you just because you have made mistakes - I'm in power now, I have influence - they will listen to my commands. They wanted to keep a watch on you, make you a puppet - I told them you didn't want that. But if only you stayed, you could be a lord, or my cap-"

"You still don't understand," Murtagh said, now with a faint scowl. He had the air of a man trying not to lose patience. He yanked the last tie tight slightly harder than necessary, and turned around. There was a muscle jumping in his neck. "I don't want to be a lord; I don't want servants, or to live in a castle. I never asked for any of that; I was cursed to be born into by rotten luck. I want _freedom_. I want to get out, go somewhere I can live my life and enjoy it. It's..." He suddenly seemed tired. "It's all I ever wanted."

They stared at each other for a few moments.

"Where do you plan to go?" Eragon asked at last.

Murtagh shrugged. "I don't know. I'll fly until I find the right place - if I see someone in need along the way, maybe I'll stop and see what I can do. Someplace small, probably. Not too small, though." And for the first time, a ghost of his old grin was visible. "Eventually I'll need some excitement again."

Eragon shook his head. "I am ready to rule in peace. This war, my training - it has all been too much, too fast."

"Yes, months spent in the palaces of the elves. It must have been torture."

"My training," Eragon said somewhat indignantly, "was extremely trying."

"Of course. I've heard all about your long, rigorous hours, staring at that tree stump." But his tone was lighter, almost teasing. A barrier had fallen.

"Peace doesn't always last, you know," Eragon said suddenly. He was grasping at straws here, and he knew it, but continued nonetheless. "Angela thinks - well, she's not been wrong yet, but she does not see everything. If there is ever -"

"You have all the armies of Alagaesia at your command - war would have to come from across the sea, and that is unlikely." Murtagh glanced at him a moment, then seemed to sigh. "Look. If there is another war, and you need me, I will be there. I can promise that. And as your ally, not at the head of the opposition. But until then..." He shrugged.

Eragon nodded, with some difficulty. "Then... goodbye, I suppose."

The two dragons, who had kept silent in the conversation until now, exchanged slight, silent nods, and Murtagh heard Saphira's voice in his mind. _Goodbye, Dragon Rider. Be well, and listen to Thorn. He will keep you out of trouble._ And he heard her huff slightly, in what may have been a laugh.

_...Thank you._

_Perhaps we shall meet again one day._

_Perhaps. I... might like that._

_Tell _him _that, little one._

Murtagh turned, and looked at Eragon. Friend, rival, ally, enemy... little brother. Not so little, now, though - he was no longer the innocent farm boy from Carvahall that Murtagh had saved from the Ra'zac that night. They were the same height now. Eragon was paler, colder, skin smother and harder, ear tips elegantly sloped. He was stronger, too. But none of it mattered, really. _Brother._ In time, he thought, maybe he could get used to that. "Goodbye"

Eragon watched in silence as Murtagh mounted Thorn and, gathering his cloak about him, prepared to take off. If only he could think of something to... And then it hit him all at once. "Wait!"

Murtagh turned in the saddle, eyebrows raised, face expectant.

Eragon paused, and then unbuckled from his side - "Here. This is yours."

It was Zar'roc. Blood-red, deadly, beautiful. Sitting quietly in its scabbard, in its master's hands. Morzan's sword. Then Brom's, Eragon's, Murtagh's, Eragon's again, and now... Nothing. It had been a symbol - of evil, of redemption, of heroism, and weakness, and triumph and defeat and regret. Of everything Murtagh wanted to forget. "Keep it."

The surprise on Eragon's face was obvious. "But -"

"I don't want it. It's yours. Use it, store it away, send it to the bottom of the sea - I don't care. But... thank you, for the thought."

"_Atra ilian tauthr ono, pomnuria fricai._"

A smile twisted Murtagh' lips, the first real smile Eragon had seen him give in far too long. "And you."

Eragon stood back against Saphira, and nodded to Thorn. The mighty red dragon stretched, muscles tightening and coiling before, with a hop and a step, he launched himself into the air, giant wings spreading out overhead like a great cloak of rubies, glinting in the setting sun. The first powerful downsweap of those wings brought air rushing down against them like wind, before another sweep brought Murtagh and his dragon high above their heads, soon no larger than a stallion in the distance as they flew into the gathering dark.

**The End.**


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